Strength
by RainbowBetty
Summary: Strength is sometimes knowing when you need help, and being strong enough to accept it. So… one-shots on a theme.
1. Chapter 1

Time period: Early season 7

* * *

Sam is already awake by the time Dean shuffles into Bobby's kitchen around six, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and staring down at his feet to avoid catching a bare toe on one of the random stacks of books, because _that's_ happened before. But Sam being up isn't that unusual. He's always been an early riser. It's his posture at the table that's off, head bowed into his hands and shoulders tense, back rigid. This is not Sam peacefully contemplating the day ahead or enjoying the quiet of early morning before the rest of the house awakes. This is Sam locked in his own head again, troubled and quiet and going it alone.

He takes a deep breath and walks over, laying a casual hand on his shoulder. "You all right?" he asks lightly, not prying if Sam's not talking. Sam doesn't look up, doesn't answer, just nods into his hands. Dean gives his shoulder a squeeze and goes to make coffee.

With his back to Sam, he has all of his senses attuned to his brother, listening on a cellular level, and he gets that Sam is in shut-down mode. What brought it on is almost irrelevant at this point. Sometimes he wonders what keeps either of them upright on any given day. He can see through the _fine_ Sam is feeding him about Hell and Lucifer since the wall came down, and the uneasy truce they've struck over Amy. Whatever it is that has Sam teetering on the edge this morning, whatever combination of horrors, he needs help and, being Sam, he's too stubborn or proud to ask for it.

Dean takes a bowl out of the cupboard and pours half a serving of corn flakes and milk, then brings it over and sets the bowl down in front of Sam who looks up with bleary disinterest, his elbows still perched on the table and hands on either side of his forehead.

"Breakfast," Dean says, as if it needed an introduction.

"I… can see that."

"Yeah, well. Eat it, then."

Sam's eyes drift away from the bowl to the surface of the table. He's disengaging again. Dean watches it start to happen and then reaches out and grips Sam by the shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. "Hey," he says. He picks up the spoon and holds it out, issuing an order. "Eat your breakfast."

It feels like he's played this role his whole life. One he was born for.

A slight frown crosses Sam's face. Then he grimaces, takes the spoon, and just does it. Because doing is easier than thinking. Easier than putting up a fight, because his mind is already doing enough of that.

Halfway through the cornflakes, Sam's spoon dips into the bowl and never comes back out, and he's staring intently at an empty spot against the far wall in a way that makes Dean nervous.

"You done?" Dean asks, hoping to draw Sam back.

Sam just stares. Caught half in Dean's reality and half in Lucifer's. "I don't…"

"You're done," Dean concludes, picking it up and taking it to the sink. "Go get dressed. Your jeans are still on the floor by your bed, and uh, wear that blue flannel, the one with the buttons that aren't really buttons."

Sam blinks, his shoulders noticeably relaxing, and he sinks back with a heavy exhale. "Yeah. Okay," he says. He stands and stops to lean for a second against the back of the chair before something like confusion crosses his face. He looks back at Dean. "What about… which t-shirt?"

It's because _doing_ is easier than thinking. Dean knows. This is Sam asking for help without actually asking, getting Dean to take point on the little things while Sam feels his way back.

Sam always finds his way back. From torture, from addiction, from grief, even from his own insanity, he's fought his way back to Dean every time and he's somehow never let any of it harden him or strip him of his humanity.

And so yeah, if every so often he needs to shut down and be told when to eat and which shirt to put on, Dean figures he can do that for Sam.

"Aerosmith," he says, giving Sam a reassuring nod. "You like that one."

It must have been a suitable answer, because Sam gives the chair a slight push in toward the table and turns to head upstairs.

Watching him go, every instinct in Dean wants to pry all the hurt out of him and _make_ him talk about it, beg him to give the burden of it to him and let him help, just let him carry it, just for a little while. It kills him, not knowing the details of what happened in the cage, and at the same time he knows that if Sam ever did give him the tiniest glimpse of it, it would quite probably destroy him.

He wants to shake Sam by the arms and scream "_what did he _do_ to you?"_ while at the same time he just wants to hold him and sob _"please don't, don't ever tell me, I can't."_

Dean does neither. Because that's not what Sam needs.

From the next room, Dean hears Sam say, _"You_ bought me Aerosmith."

"That's why you like it!" he returns, and the tone of Sam's voice sends relief running through him. Because he hears some of the frightening distance dropping away, more _Sam_ than shell-shocked soldier. Because Sam is letting him help. Because Sam always finds his way back.

If he didn't, they would both be lost.


	2. Chapter 2

Time period: Shortly after 7.21 Reading is Fundamental

* * *

Since Indiana, his mind is his own again.

He still has dreams. Of what Dean calls his "cage match."

He smiles when Dean says it like that, letting Dean's way of dealing reassure him the way it used to, falling back into their old patterns of brushing pain aside like hot ash before it has a chance to catch and burn.

It wasn't a _match,_ though. Not in any sense.

Sam shudders, remembering, and then brushes the memories off. Pushes them down. He's glad that's something he can do now, push it down. He has control over it. So many lifetimes' worth of incomprehensible things all shoehorned to fit inside his limited human perception and understanding, it broke his mind just like it had shredded his soul. But now it's as if a dimmer switch has been turned down, a lens pulled back and left out of focus. All the sharpness, the things that hurt him, made fuzzy and indistinct. He can ignore it. His mind isn't torturing him with... That is, Lucifer isn't...

He leaves that nagging thought alone, that the Lucifer in his head was _him_ all this time, that he'd been torturing himself, a personification of his own pain remade in his torturer's image. That feels too close to crazy, so he leaves it alone. Leaves it behind the wall. Because he has a new wall in his head now, in a _don't-think-about-it_ sort of way.

That's normal. It's coping. It's what Dean does.

Dean looks at him with so much relief sometimes that it brings up a surge of guilt at having cracked in the first place. And some part of him knows how ridiculous that is, to imagine that he could have held onto his sanity through everything they did to him. But he can't help thinking that somehow he should have. He _should_ have. For Dean.

That flash of relief he sees in Dean is always chased away a second later by tenuous resolve and resignation, and Sam knows Dean must be just one bad day away from cracking himself. Dean's walls are at capacity. They're chipping away with each new curveball that's thrown at them.

He won't let Sam help with any of it, of course. Dean wouldn't dream of laying any of it on anyone else, least of all Sam. He won't dare risk Sam's supposedly fragile state of well-being by sharing any of his own grief or heartache or exhaustion.

Dean still thinks he has to carry both of them.

So when Sam wakes up shaking, he clenches his fists for the reminder that he _can_ move, rubs his hands over his own arms to dispel the phantom feeling of Lucifer's hands on him and shrugs off the terrible dread that touch conveyed, never knowing whether it would mean pain or something worse. And he makes himself breathe evenly, to bring his racing pulse back down, to reestablish reality. That works now, thanks to Castiel.

If Dean won't let him carry any of his load, the least Sam can do is not add to it.

A few nights after they left Rufus' cabin, Sam bolts upright with a gasp and brings his reality back into focus on the edge of a hotel bed, unable to rid himself of the feeling that he's being watched.

That's when he looks over to discover Dean, awake, watching him with apprehension and concern from the edge of his own bed.

Embarrassed, Sam looks down at his hands and wills himself to stop shaking. "Dean. What..." he starts, then takes a deep breath. "Why are you up? Everything okay?"

Dean's face twists into a scowl. "You know, screw that, Sam! You mind telling me what the hell that was?" His tone is harsh, though it's laced with what Sam recognizes as Dean's version of tightly reined-in panic.

"Nothing. Nothing, Dean. Just a-a nightmare, okay? I'm fine."

"No, _not_ okay. I thought Cas tightened all your loose screws. Erased all your crap, or whatever."

Sam takes another breath. "No, he... Not exactly. But it's better, Dean," he adds quickly. "Trust me, it is."

The dream is quickly fading back into his subconscious, leaving just a trickle of unease and the dull knowledge that it would hurt if he poked at it, so he doesn't. Instead, he studies the range of emotions playing out on Dean's face.

"You lied to me about this before, Sam. You tell me everything's fine and the next thing I know you're tripping balls with Lucifer and walking into moving vehicles. How am I supposed to trust that you're just _fine?"_

"Dean-"

"Sam." There is desperation in Dean's voice. "I can't. I can't... I just can't take having one more piece of bad news dropped on me, okay? I just, I can't do it, man. If Cas' thing didn't work you gotta tell me. We'll figure something else out, whatever it takes, but please, I'm asking you, tell me this one straight."

"I'm okay," Sam promises without hesitation, wishing he had a way to make the words sound less empty. "I swear. I'd tell you if I wasn't."

Dean drops his gaze and nods with a sort of resigned skepticism. "You've said that before."

Sam stifles a sigh. It's not an argument he's going to win, not right now. He knows that. So he leans forward a bit into the space between them that separates the two queen beds. "Why aren't _you_ sleeping?" he asks.

Dean runs a tired hand through his hair. "Don't worry about it."

The irony of that isn't lost on Sam. That Dean believes he's the one allowed to lie about his state-of-mind.

It's not fair. He really gets the feeling Dean expects him to take up the role of indignant, self-righteous party opposed. But he deliberately sidesteps it.

"You know, I think... I think Cas is okay too."

When Dean looks up again at Sam his eyes are filled with so much pain. "How can he possibly be?" he says, the harshness back. "You saw him. You saw what he's like now. After what he took off _you_, I don't see how he's even-" Dean cuts off sharply and draws back, as if realizing the implications of what he was about to say. "Which was not not your fault, Sam." he amends. "Since he's the one who scrambled your yolks to begin with."

It seems like such an oversimplification that the blame feels misplaced. Sam is tempted to argue. But it's a diversion. It's intentional, and Sam sees that too.

"Dean. Look, I'm not saying I understand it, or that it makes any kind of sense, but it seems like whatever he did to help me... it helped _him_. Like, I don't know, gave him focus or something."

Dean's frown deepens as he seems to be turning the information over in his head. Then he says, "You're right, that doesn't make any sense."

"But he's not _broken_, Dean. Not the way you'd expect. Not like..." _Not like I was._ He swallows the rest of the words, although the look on Dean's face suggests he hears them anyway.

Dean shifts uneasily, then turns his face away so that he thinks Sam can't see him roughly brush the tears away that have begun pooling in his eyes. "He's a stupid son of a bitch," he mutters.

"He is," Sam agrees. "And so am I."

Dean looks back and narrows his reddened eyes at Sam, then he glances at the clock on their nightstand. "Yeah, well. You should get back to sleep, there, princess. Your lack of beauty rest ain't doing you any favors."

"Same to you," Sam returns good-naturedly. He gets up and makes a trip to the bathroom, returning to find that Dean hasn't made any move to lay down. He's still sitting on the edge of his bed, running his hands absently over the surface of the bedspread on either side of him with his eyes fixed on a certain point on the floor.

Sam walks over and touches Dean's shoulder. "Come on, man. Call it a night."

Dean starts to shrug him off, then he looks up at Sam appraisingly, and Sam holds his gaze without flinching. _Let it go, just a little, just for now,_ Sam urges silently, communicating it through the tips of his fingers pressing gently but insistently into the taught ridges of muscle that lay under his brother's t-shirt.

_Let me help._

Whatever Dean needed to see in Sam, he evidently sees it, because he relaxes under Sam's touch and some of the lines soften around his eyes. And it's not just a look of relief that passes over his face, not just the _thank-god-my-brother's-not-dead-or-crazy_ look. It's gratitude.

Dean's lips press together into a thin line and he nods once, shifting on the mattress and reaching back to find his pillow while Sam pulls the edge of Dean's blanket up and offers it to him. Dean takes it without a word and yanks it up brusquely over one shoulder as he turns over and burrows down into the sheets.

Facing the door, his back is to Sam.

And maybe it means nothing. Maybe it's just the way he turned to get comfortable, but in the wake of everything that's happened Sam can't help but see the small gesture for the symbolism it provides.

_You've got my back, Sam._

"Always," Sam whispers.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam smoothed his hands lengthwise over the crumpled paper, pressing the angry folds and creases flat over the surface of the aged, oak dresser. Not _his_ dresser. Like every other piece of furniture in this room he shared with Dean, in this house his dad was renting, it had a history that had nothing to do with Sam. He was impermanent here. Irrelevant.

But this letter, retrieved from the trash after a fit of frustration, _this_ was his.

He regretted throwing it away almost as soon as he'd done it. No matter how much he smoothed it, it would never be the same crisp, white, official-looking letter he'd pulled from its similarly official-looking envelope weeks ago to inform him of his acceptance to Stanford . He'd kept it hidden inside one of the drawers that wasn't his, letting the secret knowledge of his achievement buoy him through the day-to-day mundaneness of hunting, training, and more hunting, and more training.

It was _his_, his way out.

His passport to a safe, normal, nondescript, suburban American life and the chance to be _good _at something that didn't involve shooting a gun or running until his lungs burned and a stitch gnawed into his side so that he had to double over just to suck in air. Or putting stitches in an open wound doused with whiskey.

He imagined himself instead with a tailored suit and a mile-long list of clients, and a pretty assistant who would call him sir and blush when he thanked her for pulling the documents he needed for court that morning.

He carried the dream with him, kept it close to his heart like a fragile thing to be guarded and protected. Something no one could take away from him.

After a few days of walking on air over his acceptance, Sam had finally forced himself to look at the hard reality of what an education at Stanford would cost. He diligently filled out financial aid papers, loan and grant and scholarship applications, collected letters of recommendation from his teachers and written essay after essay. Weeks had passed, and he'd heard nothing back. His fragile, closely guarded dream flickered like a candle in a gale-force wind.

He was still bent over the dresser trying to return the letter to an approximation of its un-marred state when he heard Dean clear his throat from the doorway of their room. Sam turned abruptly, guiltily snatching the letter up and folding it behind his back.

Dean smirked. "What'dya got there, Sammy?" he asked innocently, his tone implying that he knew _exactly_ what Sam was looking at, ignorant of the fact that in this case it _wasn't_ one of the magazines Dean kept wedged under his mattress.

"It's nothing, forget it," Sam muttered, running his fingers along the well-worn fold in the paper. Then he noticed the white envelope Dean was holding at his side, as if catching Sam in the act of something had made him momentarily forget it. Dean recalled it as soon as he noticed Sam's attention on it, and he held up the piece of mail. His expression changed at once from playful to studiously neutral.

"This is for you," he said evenly, holding it up to read what was printed on the outside. "It's –ah…" he cleared his throat, "Says, from the 'office of admissions.'"

Sam's breath caught in his throat. Dean wasn't stupid. Dean would know what that meant.

He waited a beat for Dean's eyes to come back up to meet his before he ventured, "From… Stanford?"

"Stanford. Yeah. " There was a moment of hesitation before Dean said, "Were you even gonna tell me you applied?"

Sam shrugged numbly, waiting for his closely-guarded dream to be dragged out into the light and scrutinized, criticized, cut down. But Dean just nodded stiffly, holding out the unopened envelope.

"Better see what they have to say, then," Dean said with a mixture of betrayal and respect.

Sam crossed the short distance between them and took the thin envelope from Dean. With Dean watching him intently, he slid a finger under the sealed flap and tore it open.

He didn't immediately understand what he was looking at. The letter began with "congratulations" and "we are pleased to extend the following offer," which led into a confusing table of numbers and dollar amounts. Sam frowned at it for a moment, trying to make sense of it, before Dean grabbed the letter out of his hand to see for himself.

"Dean!" he protested, but instead of fighting his brother for it he leaned in close to continue reading.

"Is this saying what I think it's saying?" Dean asked.

Sam felt a strange lightness stealing through his limbs. He thought he might have to sit down. _"Is_ it?" He needed Dean to confirm it for him, to tell him he wasn't misreading it.

"I think so." Dean looked up at him, eyebrows raised. "That's a full ride. To fucking _Stanford_, man."

Sam inhaled and took a step back, sitting down heavily on the edge of his not-his bed. "This can't be real," he said flatly.

"Sam. Jesus Christ!"

Dean sat down beside him, still holding the letter. Sam looked at it skeptically. "It just—it has to be a mistake."

"It's not a mistake. Look at it." Dean pointed to a box in the table of figures that read total out-of-pocket costs. _Zero. _

"But how is that even _possible?"_

"Because my little geek brother is a frigging genius. Looks like you're going to California, college-boy!"

"Dean—" He took another unsteady breath, steeling himself for the realization that was creeping in to displace this new reality. "No. Dean, no. I can't. There's no way. Dad'll flip. He'll never let me do this, not in a million years."

Dean looked at him for a moment. "Sammy, how old are you?"

"Seventeen. But Dean, listen—"

_"Seventeen,_ Sam. In a couple months you'll be eighteen years old. You're an adult. You don't need Dad's – or my, or anyone else's permission. This is _your_ life. Your decision." He looked searchingly at Sam. "This is what you want, right?"

Sam could see the conflict brewing behind Dean's eyes, part of him begging Sam to laugh and say no, that it had just been a fleeting whim and that his place was _here_, by Dean's side, no matter what. But he also saw Dean's big-brother pride in everything Sam had ever been and could be, the same unfailing support and encouragement that had spurred Sam to take his first baby-steps into Dean's waiting arms.

"Yeah, it is," Sam breathed. "I want this, Dean. I just… I don't think I can tell Dad. There's no way he'll be okay with this."

"Dad's not the bully you think he is, Sammy. He's done everything for us. Everything you ever wanted or needed, he got you. I mean, little league, mathletes, those ugly neon sneakers that everyone at that school in Montana was wearing..."

Sam frowned skeptically. "Sure, but he-"

"Remember that time he took us to the Grand Canyon?"

"Dad did _not_ take us to the Grand Canyon."

"Sure he did! No, you were like four years old, you probably don't remember. But it was amazing. And man, I rode this donkey that just kept... _farting!"_

Sam stared at Dean with open disbelief until finally Dean couldn't keep a straight face any longer, and he burst out laughing.

"You almost bought that," he snorted. "Farty donkey!"

"More like full-of-shit jackass," Sam shot back, pleased with his own cleverness.

Dean suddenly stood up, unbalancing the mattress, and motioned to Sam. "C'mere," he said tersely. "I want to show you something."

Sam stood, and Dean reached out and took hold of both his shoulders, spinning him around to face the opposite direction with his back to Dean, his brother's hands still gripping shoulders with a firm, steady warmth. Across the room, Sam could see their reflection in the tall mirror above the dresser that belonged to someone else. Dean stood just off to the side behind Sam so that he was visible in the mirror.

"Take a look, okay? And memorize it," Dean said, with a little emphatic shake of Sam's shoulders. "You see me standing behind you?"

Sam nodded, his puzzled expression gazing back at him.

"You feel me holding on to you?" Sam nodded again, and Dean said, "Well you remember that, Sammy. When you go tell Dad about Stanford, when you set foot on that campus, when you sit down to take an exam. When some girl breaks your heart or you ever feel like you can't get out of bed in the morning because the world's too goddamn empty. You remember I got you. Okay, Sammy? I got you, and there's _nothing _you have to face on your own."

Sam looked down, biting the inside of his lip and blinking fast to keep back a swell of tears. After a moment he reached up and patted one of Dean's hands, catching it in an awkward squeeze before Dean dropped his hands and followed up with a swift smack to Sam's ass.

"Now go get 'em," Dean said with a grin.

Sam swallowed hard and nodded with resolve, scooping up the scholarship letter off the surface of the bedspread.

As he left Dean behind in their bedroom, he could still feel the warm impression that Dean's hands had left on his shoulders, and he felt bolstered by a confidence that could only have come from his big brother.

* * *

A/N: Many thanks to everyone who followed or favorited, and a shout out to those who reviewed the last two chapters: jensensgirl3, sylia91, lillelouis, BranchSuper, SayLo, mandancie, AshleyMarie84, SPNxBookworm, L.A.H.H, AndThenBigBangHappened, ackeberlynn, mb64, kjdw, Shannanigans, Mythopoeia, twomoms, Tifaching, BlueStrawberryIII, Guests, and my BFF Sarah! You guys inspire me - thanks! :-D


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